


Maybe life should be about more than just shredding

by theperipheral



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 22:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18214295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theperipheral/pseuds/theperipheral
Summary: It's 1985 and it's the most important night of Lexa's life - she and her friends have reached the final round of the annual battle of the bands. There's a life-changing prize on the line that could mean the difference between making it to the big time and languishing in obscurity forever. All she has to do is get on stage and give the performance of a lifetime. Shouldn't be too hard, right?





	Maybe life should be about more than just shredding

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, the things that can be found in the depths of a WIP folder...

For a few nights every winter, Polis City Theatre filled with music nerds, journalists and wanna be rock stars from all walks of life. Out front people queued for tickets, out back vans stuffed with equipment and musicians queued to unload and set up. The whole place was a haze of tobacco smoke, alcohol and dubious life choices. Lexa took it all in from the front seat of her best friend’s death-trap of a van, her canvas clad feet tapping a steady rhythm on the dash. She smiled as an impromptu jam session filtered in through the open window – piss poor and out of tune but the participants were enjoying themselves and the feeling was infectious. The atmosphere was electric, alive with the hopes and dreams of all the bands vying for the prize: $10,000, a week-long stint in a professional recording studio, and the honour of being the 1985 winner of the Polis Battle of the Bands.

Just thinking about the competition had Lexa shuddering in anticipation. This would be their year, no doubt about it. After countless hours of writing and practising and revising and doing it all again, Fire were finally there. They’d made it to the final round, this was their shot. In just a few short hours, they’d step out onto the stage and pray that they’d be good enough, that the crowd would love them and the judges would too.

A quick rap of knuckles on the windscreen jolted Lexa violently from her thoughts. Anya raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow in question, then flicked her hand in a gesture that clearly meant _‘get your damn feet down’_. She slid into the driver’s seat, passing Lexa a sheet of paper and a poorly photocopied badge with ‘performer’ printed in large font.

“We’re signed in,” she said simply. Lexa scanned the form she’d been handed and groaned.

“We go on at seven thirty?” she asked, hoping her eyes were deceiving her. That’d place them second in a line-up of six of the best bands in the state. They’d be quickly forgotten in a mist of alcohol and bad dancing.

“Yep.”

“Fuck.” Lexa let her head fall back onto the grubby headrest.

“Yep.”

Anya wasn’t big on conversation before a show; it’d been that way for as long as they’d been performing together. Perhaps there was something about arriving at a venue that transformed her into the quintessential bassist – quiet, brooding, intense. Lexa attributed it to nerves, but she knew better than to say that out loud.

A shaggy head poked through the window to look at the paper still in Lexa’s hand, making her jump in her seat.

“Seven thirty?” Lincoln asked, the disappointment clear in his voice. When neither Lexa nor Anya responded, he shrugged. “Well, at least we won’t have to wait through everyone else’s sets.”

Lexa picked her head up and stared at the drummer, disgusted at his logical, unreasonably optimistic reasoning. Sensing her displeasure, he reached over and tapped and item on the form that she’d overlooked, and he was off the hook.

“Soundcheck in ten.”

Everything was suddenly a flurry of action – cases lugged out of the back, a mad sprint to the stage, a frantic tuning of Lexa’s guitar strings to Anya’s bass. The angles of Lincoln’s drums were adjusted and his stool raised just-so. As usual, Roan strode on stage mere seconds before they were ready to go, leather jacket open and shirt nowhere to be seen. Long haired, swaggering and loose limbed, he had the looks and the voice to fit their brand of hard rock perfectly. Absolutely believing that he was entitled to fame and all its vices, the guy knew he was good and demanded the world know it too. The ego overload would be frustrating if he didn’t live up to his own hype, but so far he had.

They started up their usual mid-tempo soundcheck, a song that had a few quieter moments in the verses but a bombastic chorus that’d give the techs a good idea of how they’d be playing later. The guy at the mixer was quick to let them know he had an estimation of their settings with a disinterested thumbs-up and a dismissive wave, and they were done. As quickly as the band had begun, they were ushered from the stage and left to wait their turn for the real thing. To Lexa, this was the worst part of any show, let alone one with so much riding on it. There was too much time to think, too much time for nerves to set in. With the four of them on edge, the van suddenly became a wholly unpleasant place to be.

Roan was the first to peel away, muttering something about needing a smoke. Lincoln left in search of a bathroom. Anya only tolerated Lexa’s fidgeting for another few minutes before demanding that she leave and find a way to calm down.

The rest of the people in the theatre were faring no better. Staff bustled through the hallways chasing the latest disaster, and more than one green-faced musician roamed around aimlessly with fear in their eyes. Desperate not to become one of them, Lexa decided to prop herself up at the bar, hoping to get a little liquid courage from a depressingly warm beer. She positioned herself with a decent enough view of the stage that allowed her to scope out the competition. She smiled to herself as a bearded guy fiddling with a keyboard started an argument with the sound-tech. Pissing off the person that would be making sure the audience could hear him probably wouldn’t work in his favour when it came to the actual show.

“Wow, that guy’s screwed.”

Lexa looked up to see a young woman standing nearby, watching the unfolding scene with amusement. She looked the usual kind of rebellious misfit that’d enjoy the rock show – all dark colours and questionable posture, bar the mountain of blonde atop her head. Lexa wondered briefly if she’d managed to sneak in early or if she was one of the performers, but concluded that she didn’t actually care. She returned her attention to her beer, still waiting for the calm to kick in.

“Hey, you’re the guitarist from Fire, right?” The girl invited herself to sit on the stool next to Lexa, who nodded mid-swig.

“Yeah, I am,” she confirmed after swallowing her mouthful.

“I saw you qualify, your songs were great,” the girl gushed, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the din of the ongoing soundcheck. “Are you playing the same set tonight?”

Lexa shook her head, somewhat surprised that anyone would know who any of the bands were, let alone their songs. Then again, whoever won that night would find themselves with a lot of cash and likely a lot of brand new friends because of it. Maybe that was what the girl was hinting at – Lexa frowned, not entirely pleased that her mind had gone there.

“We have different songs. Y’know, keep the judges interested.”

“Right, right,” the girl shuffled on her stool, trying to make herself comfortable on the lacklustre padding. Lexa closed her eyes in frustration. She just wanted to be left alone to gather her thoughts and relax a little, but her unwelcome companion wasn’t helping. She opened her mouth to say as much, but the blonde was already talking again. “I’m Clarke by the way, singer and rhythm for Saving Starlight.”

“Uh, okay. I’m Lexa,” Lexa murmured, trying to recall if she’d heard of Clarke’s band or if they’d been at a qualifier she’d missed.

“Nice to meet you,” Clarke chirped. “I really thought you guys were the best that night I saw you. I mean, obviously, since you won and made it here.”

“Thanks. It’s probably going to be tougher tonight but I like our chances.”

“I think we have a shot at it too.”

Lexa tore her gaze away from the stage to look at Clarke properly for the first time and was taken aback to find her quite so pretty. Her blonde hair was cut just above chin-length, blow dried and hair-sprayed to death for extra volume. She wore a tight red tee under a dark jacket, leather pants and boots made for stomping. It was a good look for her, Lexa conceded, and certainly required more effort than her own plain tank and jeans. Licking her suddenly dry lips, Lexa gestured to the barman for a couple of shots.

“Best of luck to us both,” she said, tipping one of the burningly strong drinks down her throat. She slid the other over to Clarke, who grinned and inclined her head, then downed it.

Taking the drink as permission to stick around, Clarke waved a fresh pair of beers their way and launched into a discussion about her favourite bands – from the mainstream ones that everyone knew and loved to the obscure local ones that would be playing that night, to the different bands she’d been in over the past few years. There was something about Clarke’s voice that was simultaneously relaxing and enrapturing at the same time – she certainly had the charisma of a frontwoman.

“So anyway, there I was at our first ever gig, my mom bursts into the bar and tries to drag me out. I’m trying to be professional, I just keep singing as she drags me off stage. I thought for sure she’d dislocate something.” Clarke rubbed her shoulder at the memory as Lexa chuckled at the anecdote.

“Well you were seventeen, you shouldn’t have even been in there.

“That’s what she said! I finished ths song but she pulled out the mic cable and dragged me out. I was grounded for like, two months but it got us noticed. We were always the band with the psycho mom after that. Added a little theatre to our name, I guess,” Clarke sighed fondly at the memory and produced a lighter and cigarette pack from her pocket. Lighting up, she sat back and regarded Lexa evenly. “So how about you? Any good stories?”

“I’ve never been dragged off stage, no,” Lexa said as she waved off the offer of a smoke. “I got in a fight with a heckler once though. A guy at one of our shows was screaming for me and Anya to get out, like he thought a vagina onstage was sacrilege or something, I dunno. We ignored him but after a while he started spitting at us and it was fucking gross. Roan had to pull me off the guy when when the owner called the cops.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, not one of my prouder moments.”

“No, it totally is, stand up for yourself. It’s great. It’s _hot._ ” Clarke tipped her beer bottle in admiration and took a draught. Lexa’s brain latched onto the word ‘hot’ and wouldn’t let go. Was Clarke… was she…? “You know, I’m glad I got the chance to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s been fun. And besides,” Clarke’s voice dropped to a low whisper as she leaned in close to Lexa’s ear, “I couldn’t help but notice you’re pretty talented with your fingers. That’s hot too.”

Lexa could feel her face heating up, turning beet red as Clarke drew back with a smirk. “Thanks? I mean, me too. You too. It’s been good, I mean.”

Clarke huffed a laugh and shook her head. She looked up at the clock above the bar and hummed.

“There’s some time before the show starts if you want to go somewhere quieter?”

Perhaps the drink for courage had too strong of an effect, because before she could stop herself, Lexa was nodding, they following Clarke down a darkened corridor and into one of the women’s restrooms. Her heart pounded in her chest and she was nervous for an entirely different reason than she had been half an hour ago. An hour? How long had she been talking to Clarke? She wasn’t sure, and it wasn’t important because Clarke was leaning on a cracked porcelain basin looking at her with darkened eyes, biting her lip in a way that was just… fuck.

Lexa breathed in a shaky breath and swept through the distance between them. She took Clarke’s face in her hands to bring their mouths together in a swift – almost _too_ swift kiss. It was a stupid, irresponsible thing to do, she knew. She was in a public place for fuck’s sake, letting some girl she didn’t know tempt her into losing focus. But then again, maybe this was exactly what she needed – a brief moment of insanity before the show. Maybe it was the beer talking. She pulled back, feeling hot breath between them.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Clarke husked out, so she did.

Lexa let herself be pushed backwards, be pressed against the inside of a grubby stall. Scorching lips found her own and quick fingers traced up her arms to tangle in her hair. She tugged at a leather-covered thigh, hitching it up and pulling Clarke closer, as close as they could be. A second later, Clarke gasped as Lexa stepped and reversed their positions, all but slamming her into the flimsy door and flicking the lock to ‘occupied’. Clarke fought back, kissing her again, deeper and harder, and Lexa could taste the want and need on her tongue. In Clarke’s arms, there was no competition to think about, no bandmates to worry after, no prize money to lust after. There was just _heat_ and _more_ and _holy shit her tits_ _are_ _amazing_. Clarke smirked into the kiss and pressed into Lexa’s touch, seeking more contact.

The outer door of the bathroom creaked open and the two of them froze. A sheepish cough sounded from the hallway.

“Lexa, are you in there?” Lexa bit her lip as Clarke’s attached themselves to her neck. She wanted to ignore the bassist, to listen to the whispered, whimpered protest, but she spoke again. “If you are, get to the fucking stage, we’re on in ten.”

Fuck.

“I have to-” Lexa’s words died in her throat as Clarke latched on, sucking hard in an attempt to regain her attention. Lexa shuddered, and the thought of giving in and staying there, throwing everything away and just letting Clarke have her way felt like the best idea in the world – until the stall door was slammed hard from the other side. She leapt back, startled.

“Now,” Anya growled from the other side. “What part of ten minutes don’t you understand?”

The gravity of the situation finally registered in Lexa’s mind, and with one final lamenting look at Clarke - dark, hooded eyes, her swollen lips and tousled hair, skewed shirt – unlatched the door to look at her rightfully impatient friend.

“Sorry An, I -”

“I don’t care, just get your ass to the stage. You can find whoever that is later and finish what you-” Anya tensed as the door swung open and she caught a proper view of Clarke, hastily fumbled clothes and all. “Really, Lexa? Not only are you making out in the bathroom when we’re about to do the biggest show of our lives, but you’re doing it with _her_?”

“Whoa, calm down. She’s -”

“The singer from Saving Starlight, I know. The band I don’t you about, the one that’s our biggest competition?”

Clarke pushed past the two of them to examine her make-up in the mirror. Lexa stared at the reflection, breathless and confused. She saw herself, dishevelled and definitely not ready to perform. Her stage outfit was probably still hanging in the van. There was no time to process, let alone get Clarke’s number, since Anya grabbed her arm and dragged her out, breaking into a run as soon as they were in the more spacious hallway.

“I… sorry, Anya. I lost track of time,” Lexa sputtered as they reached the wings. She hastily slung her guitar strap over her shoulder and tried not to think about the strange looks her bandmates were giving her. Anya bumped her shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring, but Lexa’s head was reeling too much to take it in.

“It’s fine.”

There was no time to talk once they took their places. The curtain rose, Lincoln raised his sticks to count a quick four beats and they launched into their first song. It should have been easy, the chord shapes and the rhythm were muscle memory by this point but god, it was anything but. It was just wrong with everyone in their gear but her. The oddness burned between Lexa’s shoulders, pushing her off beat. Her fingers wouldn’t cooperate. The others noticed immediately. Lincoln slowed imperceptibly to compensate, Roan danced around his mic stand in a flamboyantly distracting manner. It was a train-wreck in the making, and it was all her fault. Lexa stared at the ground, at the rafters, anywhere but the crowd. _Fuck_ , she’d ruined their chances.

As the first song drew to a close, the crowd were less than impressed. They clapped politely, a few cheered, but it was far from the raucous applause that they’d need to stand a chance of winning. Lexa glanced to the wings, still unable to look at the audience and caught a flash of blonde in the midst of other musicians. She was too far away to see her expression, but she could swear she saw a nod of encouragement, maybe a smile. It was enough.

Lexa knew the songs inside out, she’d written most of them herself. She looked at her bandmates and grinned to let them know that yes, she was alright. She wiped her sweating palm on the leg of her pants and adjusted her grip on the pick. She breathed deep and threw herself into the opening lick of the next song, hard and unforgiving with her strikes. She could do this. Armed with new conviction, she played the best damn set she ever had, and her bandmates fed off the energy. The performance flowed better than it ever had in rehearsals. Soon they had the crowd bouncing in the pit, arms flailing in a sweaty mess. People mouthed along to songs they hadn’t known until a few moments before, a testament to the hours they’d put into crafting memorable hooks.

They left the stage triumphantly, and Lexa couldn’t stop grinning. She was confident that they’d pulled themselves back from the brink of disaster. On the weight of that performance, they’d be serious contenders. Anya clapped her on the shoulder, clearly proud of her for finding her rhythm after the shaky start.

“That was amazing!” Roan exclaimed as he pulled Lincoln into a sweaty headlock. “We’ve fucking got this, I swear. We’re getting that 10k.”

Lexa let herself be swept up in the post-performance glow and found herself sandwiched between her drummer and singer at the bar, where they’d gone for celebratory drinks and a better view of the following acts. Throughout the next couple of bands, Lexa craned her neck this way and that, but could find no sign of Clarke. She wanted to thank her for… what, nodding? It felt stupid, but if felt necessary all the same.

As drinks flowed and time passed, the band with the temperamental keyboard player sounded predictably awful enough to make them all wonder how they’d even qualified. Beyond them, the competition was tough. Before long, it was time for the last band of the night: Saving Starlight. Clarke’s band. Lexa sat higher on her stool to see over the crowd, seeing for the first time that they were a five-piece – bass, guitar, keyboard, drums, and Clarke herself at the mic with a white Strat slung over her shoulder. Lexa held her breath as the woman she’d had against a bathroom wall not so long ago led her group in an amazing set. The band were in sync from the start, and clearly talented. Their music was simple, but better for it. The keyboard brought a lightness to their tone that offset the harshness of the guitars, and Clarke’s voice… there was a shark husk to her singing that had Lexa and many around her utterly enraptured.

Anya had been right, Saving Starlight really were their biggest competition. They were great. As they started up a slower number that allowed the audience to breathe for a moment, Lincoln and Roan grew quiet, the celebrations put on hold as being somewhat premature. Anya ordered another round of shots and refused to look at the stage, instead looking pointedly at Lexa.

The crowd yelled for more when the set drew to a close, and Lexa’s heart sank in her chest. With a reaction like that, the decision was as good as made. The judges filed on stage and the emcee took the mic to drum up a round of applause for all the participants.

“Wasn’t that amazing, folks?” he asked in his best made-for-radio voice, pausing for the drunken response from the stands. I think we can all agree that we’ve seen some real talent here tonight. Now, before we announce the winners, we’d like to take a moment to thank our sponsors.”

Numbly, Lexa and her bandmates trudged up to take their place in the line-up of bands to await the inevitable. She tuned out the posturing emcee, attention drawn instead by the still breathless Clarke, who was whispering something into her keyboard player’s ear. The two women laughed at whatever she said, and as Clarke straightened, she caught Lexa’s eye. She gave a short wave and a thumbs up. Despite the churning in her belly, Lexa smiled and earned a wink and a glimpse of a teasingly bitten pink tongue.

Perhaps due to the alcohol in her system, Lexa’s head swan as she tried to return the wink. It ended up as more of an awkward blink. Across the stage, Clarke shoved her friend for laughing and turned back to listen to the emcee. Lexa couldn’t look away though, she wanted to see the look on Clarke’s face when Saving Starlight won. It’s be amazing, she knew. Clarke’s face would break out into a wide grin and she’d leap up to the mic to give her thanks and celebrate -

A sharp elbow found its way into Lexa’s side. Flinching, she turned to Anya, eyes wide in question. About to dig into her, Lexa stopped, noticing Roan stepping up to shake the emcee’s hand.

“We won,” Anya hissed, and Lexa’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

The four of them were pushed towards the judges to shake hands and be presented with an oversized cheque. A camera flashed, too bright, making Lexa’s head spin. All at once, her guitar was thrust into her hands and the stage emptied. The crowd demanded an encore from their victors, and somehow, Lexa’s fingers obeyed on autopilot. She still wasn’t entirely sure what was going on.

Later, drinks were on them. It was only fair. A few of the performers left pretty quickly to mourn, but the rest were only too happy to tag along to a nearby bar and spend someone else’s money. Rather than indulge any more than she already had, Lexa hovered at a table by the pinball machine, waiting for the reality of it all to sink in. They won, somehow. They had the money to upgrade their equipment, they had the studio time to put together a demo they could mail out to record companies. They’d done what they set out to do, and yet she felt strangely hollow.

“You were pretty good out there,” a familiar voice said. Clarke invited herself to sit next to Lexa for the second time that night, nudging her arm where it rested on the sticky bar table. “We were robbed though, that crowd loved us.”

“Tell it to the judges.” Lexa shrugged, looking her opponent up and down. Clarke glared but couldn’t hold it and soon broke out in a grin.

“So what are you going to do with my prize money?”

“Well, that depends how much we have left after tonight,” Lexa said, pointing over to where Roan had grabbed a full bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. He was pouring shots for whoever wanted them, spilling just as much as he served. “I have some ideas though.”

“Remember me when you’re famous?” Clarke teased, fluttering her eyelashes.

“I might. But you have to dance with me later, okay?”

“Already with the demands, huh? You’re not a rockstar yet.”

Lexa laughed, and let the night take her where it pleased.

Whatever happened, it must have been pretty crazy, given the vague recollections of a lot of alcohol, a lot of dancing, a lot of Clarke. Beyond that, the whole thing blurred together. She woke up the next morning to a mess of empty bottles and cigarette stubs on her night-stand and a warm body tangled in her sheets. Her limbs ached and her head pounded, and when she tried to sit up, her vision swam. The face of her bedside clock judgingly informed her that it was midday, and for that she was grateful. At least Gus would already be at work and she wouldn’t have to deal with his questions for a while.

Beside her, her companion grumbled and shifted. Clarke lay sprawled out, one arm out of her red t-shirt and thrown over a pillow, the other tucked underneath. Her pants were nowhere to be seen. To Lexa’s relief, the two of them were still somewhat dressed, although there was evidence that they’d tried to be otherwise. Had she invited Clarke back, or had she invited herself? Had they woken Gustus in their drunken stumbling? Did she have anything to do with the red claw marks on the soft skin of Clarke’s lower back?

Lexa eased herself up and left the room as swiftly as her wobbling legs would allow. She made her way downstairs to sit on one of the plush lounge chairs and stare into nothing, trying to process. She was still there some twenty minutes later when Clarke shuffled through, rubbing her eyes to adjust to the harsh light of day. Lexa gazed up at her from her seat, taking in the sight of such a beautiful girl wearing a flannel shirt that she was sure was her own, all mussed hair and bleary eyes.

“Hi,” she croaked, throat dry. She wasn’t entirely sure what the protocol was for this situation.

“Hey.”

“I uh… coffee?” Lexa made to stand up, then remembered she hadn’t put any pants on and half stumbled, half fell out of her chair. Clarke huffed a laugh, then clutched at her head in regret.

“Coffee would be great.”

**Author's Note:**

> If I can find the energy I'll continue this. It was originally intended to be a much larger fic, so there's plenty of story to tell! As usual, you can find me on tumblr at the--peripheral, where I rarely post because I forget it exists for months on end :D


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